


Torque to Size Ratio

by NadiaHart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Derek, Cute, Excessive use of italics, Fluff, M/M, Mechanic Derek Hale, Oblivious Stiles Stilinski, TA Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 18:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15913710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadiaHart/pseuds/NadiaHart
Summary: The summer heat makes Stiles sweat. Unfortunately not only does it make him sweat, his shitty ancient building seems to sweat. Or at least, none of the doors seem to sit in the frames correctly. Most importantly, his front door. The front door to the house that just might hate him, and at this moment, won't let him inside to the pure and beautiful air conditioning that is just waiting on the other side. Luckily, his neighbor is there to help him,again.





	Torque to Size Ratio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [comedicdrama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comedicdrama/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by this prompt from the Yet Another Sterek Discord Server by @PantyDean:
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/nRAbvK)  
>   
> which I only have a screenshot of so sorry about that. Thank you to @tobythewise for beta'ing this for me <3 xoxox  
>  
> 
> This was written for my good friend @ComedicDrama's birthday since he loves soft boys falling in love and awkward Derek trying to flirt. 
> 
> **Happy Birthday, my friend, I'm so happy to have met you.** I hope you enjoy this little fic  <3

“Mother fucking–shit– _fuck_.” Stiles, once again, runs his hands through his hair, pulling on the strands until his scalp tingles. With a frustrated growl, he kicks the base of the door and then hisses as pain shoots up his toes and into his ankle. “Mother fucker––”

“This is great.” Stiles stiffens at the voice, at _that_ voice. _Derek Hale’s voice,_ his frustrating, attractive neighbor _._ Frustrating, because the guy is perpetually grumpy, but also, like, super nice, and Stiles just doesn’t get how that even works. How does a person have constant R.B.F but still manage to be the most helpful? It’s really hard to get a read on Derek because of it. And attractive... because, well… Stiles isn’t blind and even if he was, he’s sure that he’d somehow instinctively know of Derek Hale’s Hotness™.

Slowly, Stiles turns around. Derek’s sprawled out along the stone front steps of his duplex like he’s posing for some kinda sexy summer heat photoshoot. He’s leaning back on his elbows, hips cocked forward, his long legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles. There’s a half-empty bottle of Jack sitting next to his wrist. And it’s in that moment that Stiles decides Derek should absolutely be wearing more, or significantly less than his sweat-stained white tank top and a pair of grease-stained, faded Levi’s. Boots… those scuffed work boots will be the _death_ of Stiles.

“Being locked out together,” Derek clarifies when Stiles just stares at him.

“Yeah, great,” Stiles grumbles turning back to his door. “Except _I’m_ not locked out.” To further illustrate his point he jerks his keys out of the lock. Well, he tries to anyway but just like the door, they’re stuck. Derek just shrugs, his long fingers stretching to grab the bottle next to him.

“Either way, we should hang out more.”

Stiles drops his forehead against the door groaning. He’d love to ‘hang out’ with Derek. He’d love to, just once, look competent and graceful in front of the guy. But that’s not his life, and Derek seems to show up every time Stiles is having a…. _moment._ Like now, like this moment where his shitty, ancient, _prewar_ building is acting up, and just _hates him!_ Scott doesn’t believe him, but Stiles is convinced the building is sentient and just… _hates him!_ Scott’s never had trouble with the front door, he’s never tripped up the steps while holding three fresh, hot pizzas only to be caught by one, Derek Hale before he can drop the boxes. Those steps have it out for him, Stiles swears it. He’s never tripped up or down steps as much as he does with these.

Scott doesn’t understand because the house loves him! He’s never gotten stuck half in half out of the ground floor window when the thing suddenly dropped on him. To be fair, Stiles probably shouldn’t have been going through the window to get to the laundry room but he was tired of fighting with the front door. And, just to make everything worse, of course, Derek- _fucking_ -Hale shows up and rescues him. With his bulging biceps and wide palms, making the stupid stuck window slide up like its been freshly greased. Not like Stiles hadn’t been, valiantly, fighting with it for the last 20 minutes trying to buck it up off his spine, no, of course not. That’s the last time Stiles tries to use the window as a shortcut to the basement laundry room. Creepy dark stairs from then on out. Until they try to kill him too.

“You should kick it,” Derek says and Stiles rolls around on the front door, keeping his head connected to the ancient wood, he looks down his nose at Derek and Derek fucking _smiles_. It might be the first real smile Stiles has ever seen on the other man and he just doesn’t know how to _feel_ about it.

Derek’s smile widens as he brings the bottle up to his lips and tilts his head back like he’s putting on a show, one clear, bright eye pinning Stiles back against the door as he drinks, slow, long drags of the whiskey. Stiles bites the inside of his cheek as Derek’s Adam’s apple bobs with each hearty swallow. He’s got no idea what's going on but he likes it, he likes this side of Derek.

“Go on.” Derek breathes, as he puts the bottle back down. “Kick it, you should. Yeah, try, try a kick.”

“A kick?” Stiles' brain clicks online, slow and buzzing. Sweat’s dripping down his back, thick summer air wraps around his skin like a blanket, his mouth is dry and he licks his lips watching Derek track the motion. “K–kick it?”

Sweat drips slowly down the tendons of Derek’s neck and he seems to shine in the fading early evening sun. “Yeah,” he shrugs and then points at the door with the bottle “Kick it,” he says before bringing it back to his lips.

“Kick it,” Stiles grumbles pulling himself from the door. “Fucking kick it,” he repeats to himself. _Yeah_ , he thinks. It’s time to show this fucking house who’s boss. Flattening his hands against the door for stability, Stiles rears forward, pulls his knee towards his chest and donkey kicks the shit out of the door, twisting his hip and really putting everything he has down into his leg. The vibration of his foot connecting with the sold weight of the door thrums back up his leg and chatters his teeth. But other then that, nothing happens.

“That… Wow.” Stiles looks up, jaw tensed to try and stop his teeth from clacking, at Derek who's now leaning forward, forearms braced on his bent knees. His head’s cocked to the side and his brows are raised in what could be surprise, amusement or… Stiles doesn't even know, now his knee hurts.

“Yeah…” Stiles is ready with a dismissal when Derek laughs and it’s beautiful and Stiles hates him a little for keeping that sound caged up inside of himself for so long.

“That was, wow,” Derek smiles and stands, the bottle dangling dangerously from his fingertips. He skips down the last few steps at the front of his building and practically float/jogs across the small street. Again, Stiles hates him, just a little bit, for the beautiful flex of his neck muscles as he checks for traffic, the roll of his shoulders as he hops up Stiles’ front steps and comes to stand just a little too close for Stiles’ sanity. “That… wow. More torque than I expected.” Derek grins and Stiles flushes from his feet to his hairline. He can feel it, the burn of heat on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the weather.

“You’ve got, uh...” Derek’s eyes _drag_ over Stiles body, slowly and he licks his lips before meeting Stiles eye again. _This can’t be happening._ “A surprising, uh, torque to size ratio.”

“Uh…” Stiles is _never_ at a loss for words, but right now, with Derek looking him over, with Derek leaning _in_ , his wide palm landing on the door over Stiles' shoulder, bringing their chests so close together that if Stiles _breathes_ too deeply they’d touch. Well, he’s got nothing. _Stiles Stilinski_ has nothing. Nothing to say except a very elegant: “...uh... Y–yep”

Derek makes a soft noise in his throat before tilting his head towards the door, his palm slides up the wood and it really takes every ounce of his very limited self-control for Stiles _not_ to turn his face and lick the sweat out of the bend of Derek’s elbow.

“Here,” Derek says, almost absently handing the bottle to Stiles, his whole body changing focus to the door behind Stiles.

It’s really a beautiful thing, Stiles thinks, as he takes the bottle from Derek and– _what the hell_ –takes a drink. How Derek gives something his entire focus and how Stiles would like to have that focus on him, just for a little while.

He sighs around the mouth of the bottle, letting the very, very stuck door take his weight. He’s suddenly tired. Whether it's the heat or Derek, or the stupid house, who totally hates him, Stiles has no idea, but he’s done. Closing his eyes he tilts his head back against the door, the bottle halfway up to his lips again when Derek grunts, the house shakes and a very, very manly squawk erupts from Stiles' mouth.

Bracing for an impact that never comes Stiles’ flailing limbs grapple for the first thing they can find. His free hand grips a thick, sweat-slick neck as strong arms wrap around his back, and before he can get too far, Derek is hauling him back to his feet, pulling Stiles into his space as he grins.

“Careful there,” he says and Stiles can smell the whiskey on his breath. “Should have warned you I guess.” Derek goes on, glancing over Stiles' shoulder at the now gaping doorway. He tugs a little making Stiles shuffle forward, his wide, scorchingly hot palms brace the small of Stiles back. _This cannot be happening._

“Nah…” Stiles manages “...we–we’re good.”

“Are we?” Derek asks looking at Stiles out of the corner of his eye, one of those thick murderous brows arching in a way Stiles has never seen before. It sends butterflies swooping in his stomach.

_This is happening._

“Yeah, we are _so_ good.” Stiles grins at Derek, and hoping he’s reading the entire situation right, takes a swing of the Jack before passing it back. He slides his hand up Derek’s chest to join his other cupping the back of Derek’s neck. Derek licks his lips, brings the bottle to his lips and then places it on the wide cement banister.

“Got anything else you need me to manhandle for you?” Derek asks, his hand returning to Stiles’ back only to slip lower and dip into Stiles’ back pockets.

“You–you...and me?” Stiles tilts his head, _this cannot be happening, this cannot be fucking happening. Not with Derek-Fucking-Hale._

“If... you want?” Derek says, and its soft, shy, _cautious_ , and Stiles realizes that Derek is worried about _Stiles_ rejecting him.

“Me?” Stiles needs to clarify because he’s pretty sure he’s kept his huge, massive, crush on Derek a secret. At least he’s tried to.

“Yeah, since that time with the pizza boxes.” Derek blushes, blowing out a breath and looking away. He shrugs his shoulder, trying for nonchalance but Stiles sees the way his jaw tenses. “Been trying to work up the nerve to talk to you, but you know….”

“Uh?” Stiles is trying not to laugh, the reality of the situation hitting him full force. He’s not this lucky. The steamy hot guy across the street doesn’t like him, it’s never him, except this time it is. Derek seems to be getting more embarrassed and frustrated as he tries to explain.

“You’re always stuck in things! Or late for something, or rushing. I… I’m not good at just, doing this….stuff…. out of the blue.”

All at once it clicks. “You’re not actually locked out of your house are you?”

“No,” Derek bites his bottom lip, the hands he has stuffed in Stiles back pockets twitch. “You’re two hours late coming home! I got nervous and … it was only supposed to be like one drink, something to give me courage, make me stay out here till you got home, but…”

“My class ran late.” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, cursing his TA responsibilities– not for the first time.

Derek clears his throat, nods, and to Stiles’ great horror starts to withdraw his hands from Stiles pockets.

“Right so…”

“You know,” Stiles grins, flinging an arm out, he grabs the bottle and gulps down the last few shots. “I think,” he says, wincing around the burn in his throat, “that the door to my bedroom….” Stiles steps backward through the front door, using the hold he has on Derek’s neck to tug him along. “Could use some man-handling...”

Derek’s smile returns full force. He steps in, pulling Stiles' hips against his own as they move out of the sweltering evening sun and into the confines of Stiles’, maybe not so haunted house.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it, thank you so much for reading.
> 
> Comments and Kudos activate my praise kink.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Derek's Getting His Meet Cute, Damnit!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15924152) by [TobytheWise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobytheWise/pseuds/TobytheWise)




End file.
